Newsies One Shots
by fxns
Summary: Canon characters! Mostly angst. I will take requests for OC and canon characters! These will also be on Amino and Wattpad. Enjoy!
1. Memories of the Refuge - CRUTCHIE

Set after the strike, enjoy! Let me know your thoughts.  
TW; beatings

Crutchie woke with a jolt, his head hitting the top bunk. Muttering some curse words under his breath, Crutchie flopped back down on the bed, his hand pressed to his forehead. A thin sheet of sweat covered his body, despite the chilled air.

Momentarily, Crutchie waited for the sound of Jack stirring in the bunk above him, but then he remembered; Jack was with Kathrine for the weekend. It was Sunday this morning, but Jack's return would come later in the day.

"Where's a friend when ya needs 'em." Crutchie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. A shudder racked his body the instant he closed his eyes, the blanket half on his body reminding him where he was.

"You's not in ta refuge, Crutchie. Not dat place." He reassured himself, clutching the blankets to his chest. He exhaled loudly, placing one hand on his heart. The beating was rapid, Crutchie's breath increasing as he tried to ground himself.

Images of the refuge flashed in his eyes, his body twitching with each one. Whimpers involuntarily escaped Crutchie's lips, his back convulsing as he imaged each hit from the belt. His mind crept back to the dark memories of the refuge, the dark nightmares plaguing his usually positive mind.

An hour passed before Crutchie wept himself back to sleep, waking up from more nightmares every few minutes, all the way till the Sun rose over the horizon. A beautiful, orange color streamed in through the window, bringing Crutchie out of the darkness.

"Time ta go sell papes." Crutchie almost grinned, pulling his gimp leg off the bed. He got dressed sitting down like he did every morning, pulling himself up on his crutch.

Every time he closed his eyes, the haunting images flashed through his head again. He stopped on the stairs, pinching the bridge of his nose again. Race ran down beside him, stopping a few steps below.

"Hey, Crutchie? You's good?" He asked, bouncing on his heels. It was obvious Race couldn't wait to get out and sell his papers.

"I's good, Race. You's get movin'" Crutchie reassured, nodding his head for effect. Race wasn't buying it, but he figured it was best to leave his friend alone. If Crutchie really wanted his help, he would've said it.

"See ya out 'tere." Race sighed, running down the rest of the stairs. Crutchie leaned heavily on the wall, shaking the night's terrors from his mind. He put a smile on his face, hobbling down the rest of the stairs.

The bell rang, hordes of newsboys leaving the Lodge House. Crutchie followed in suit, predicting the weather for Romeo on the way. Everyone collected their papers and got to work, moving to their corners. The stress of the night began to melt away, especially with the anticipated return of Jack that night. Maybe the memories of the refuge would just fade away?

Wrong.

That night Crutchie climbed his way to the roof. Although he wouldn't admit it, nor did he like it, but Specs had to help him up. His leg just kept getting worse, but it wasn't physically deteriorating.

Davey had an idea, but it was too big a word for Crutchie to really remember. Psychosomatic? Didn't he say that the stress and injuries of the refuge could've brought this out? His brain could trick him into thinking his leg was worse than it was? Crutchie couldn't quite remember if that was true, all he knew is he regretfully needed extra help.

Looking around the roof, Crutchie noticed two things. One, Jack had returned home, but wasn't back quite yet. Two, drawings were blown all over the place. "He makes a mess of 'imself every time…" He grumbled, setting his crutch on the roof ledge.

He laid on the ground, piling the papers into one stack. The drawings were of various things, Kathrine, New York, the view from the roof, and one last thing… the refuge.

The breath was sucked out of Crutchie's lungs as his eyes glanced the drawings. Images flashed through his head, a scream escaping his lips. Crutchie fell onto his back, staring at the darkening sigh as his eyes flashed with images with each blink. His eyes drifted closed, returning him to the hell that was his memory.

 _Crutchie hung onto the bed post, the boys cramped in the room around him all groaning in pain. His back stung from all the lashings, his bum leg hanging off the edge of the top bunk. His shirt had been removed several hours prior, making it easier for Snyder to whip him with a belt._

 _Tears stung his bruised and beaten face, his mental state declining with each passing minute. Every time a boy was dragged from the room, kicking and screaming as they knew what was coming. With every scream, Crutchie's heart sunk further into his stomach._

 _"_ _Crip, get down here!" Snyder howled, taking Crutchie by his bad leg and yanking him off the bed. His back and head collided with the hard ground, a painful gasp escaping his lips._

 _"_ _Please, please," he begged, getting cut off by a foot colliding with his ribs. "I can't!" Crutchie screamed, blood sputtering on his lips. Coughs racked his body, pain surging with each one. Each collision with Snyder's foot brought more blood, the other boys in the room turning a blind eye._

 _"_ _Crutchie!" One of the boys yelled, facing him. Snyder kneeled, placing both hands on his shoulders._

 _"_ _Crutchie!" Snyder's voice echoed, his hands vigorously shaking Crutchie's shoulders. "Crutchie! Crutchie! Crutchie, dammit, wake up! Please, brother wake up!"_

"Wake up!" Jack's pleading voice broke, his hands on Crutchie's shoulders. "Please, we'se a family Crutchie, please wake up! Crutchie!"

"You'se gonna break my ears." Crutchie moaned, his whole-body trembling. Images continued to flash through his brain, his brain barely acknowledging his best friend, his brother.

"Dammit Crutchie, don't do dat to me again." Jack sighed, pulling him into a hug. Crutchie's body shook so bad his foot rattled the metal on the roof. Tears poured down Jack's face from his previous worried state, refusing to let go of his brother.

"The refuge Jack, your drawings of da refuge…" Crutchie murmured, burying his face in Jack's shoulder. "The memories of dat place…"

"I'se was stupid, Crutchie. I shouldn't 'a left 'em out." Jack apologized, tightening his grip on his friend. The rate at which Crutchie was shaking was alarming, the unknown number of tears spilling from the younger boy's face scared him.

"It's okay, Jack." Crutchie stuttered out, gripping the cloth in Jack's vest like he was an infant. "I wasn't meant ta see dem."

"You'se not in the refuge, Crutch. You'se right here, you'se here with me. We'se a family." Jack repeated, gently rocking his friend to calm him down.

"I'm not in da refuge, we'se a family." Crutchie repeated back, relaxing himself into his friend's embrace. His body slowly stopped trembling, the tears stopped flowing down his face.

"We'se a family."


	2. Fever(ish) Day - RACE

Racetrack, Race, Higgens groaned as the cold bit at his body. His thin blanket was on the ground, his legs covered in goosebumps. "For the love of," he started reaching down to the floor for his blanket. Race stopped, listening to the sounds around him. The boys were still asleep in the room, their breathing relaxing him.

Unable to find his blanket, Race curled in on himself. He had been feeling a little under the weather the last couple days, so losing his blanket was one of the worst things that could happen. A shiver shuddered through his body, a gasp escaping his as his stomach hurt.

"Race?" Specs whispered, poking his head down from the top bunk. His silhouette could be seen in the dark, his hair bouncing. "You okay?"

"Mhhm, yeah." Race muttered, flinching as Specs jumped out from his bunk. They both froze, making sure no one else had woken up before returning to their conversation. "What was dat about?"

"Yous sound like crap." Specs replied, tossing the blanket over his cold friend. The October air was filling The Lodging House, everyone beginning to rely the worn blankets, or each other, for warmth. "You feelings alright?"

"I'm 'ine, Specs. Go 'ack ta sleep." Race persisted, pulling the blanket over his face. He positioned a hole in the cloth over his mouth, breathing in the cool air. A hand was placed by his head, pulling the blanket back enough so Specs could feel Race's forehead.

"Yous burnin' up." Specs exclaimed, being shushed by an increasingly aggravated Race. His silhouette moved in the dark, his clothes rustling on his body.

"You wanna wakes them all?" He whispered, keeping his back turned toward his friend. "Go ta sleep. I'll sleep it off, yous'll see."

"Yeah, Is'll see." Specs groaned, the bed shaking as he returned to his top bunk. "Night, Race."

"Night."

When morning came, Race wasn't feeling any better. His body ached, his throat felt like he had swallowed a knife. His stomach rumbled with hunger, but also lurched with pain. Slowing pulling himself up, he pulled the torn boots onto his feet.

Specs stood in the corner, an eyebrow raised at his friend. "Get back inta bed." Specs spoke up, finishing the laces on his own shoes. Race audibly sighed, a small cough erupting in his throat.

"I gotta sell papes." Race stated, not wanting to go into detail. He pushed his slightly curled hair back, positioning his hat on his head. Fingers shaking, he opened a small trunk by his bed. "Ah, this is a beauty." Race grinned, pulling a threaded jacket from the trunk.

"Dat old thing?" Specs asked, pointing a figure at the tattered jacket. "Is a bunch of strings!"

"Dis is ta only thing dat kept me from freezing o'er de years!" Race exclaimed, his voice cracking with every word. Specs rolled his eyes, taking a few steps towards his close friend.

"I'm not gonna say it again, get back in bed." Specs persisted, motioning towards the bottom bunch. Race responded by rolling his eyes, pulling what was left of the small jacket around his body.

"We's got papes to sell. Jack's prob'aly wondering where we's are." Race said, running out the door before Specs could protest. His whole body ached with each step, his balance off, but he kept going down the stairs.

Race still had half his papers left when the world went to hell. He had given into his body and the sharp pains he felt. The brick wall he sat against was freezing, his pants barely reaching his ankles. "Early frost! In city gardens should hurry-" He mustered out before a coughing fit erupted in his chest.

His whole body shook, tears brimming his eyes as his stomach tightened. "Dis sucks." Race sighed, clutching his arms across his chest for an attempt at warmth. "Gotta get 'ome." He told himself, trying to motivate himself to stand and go back to the Lodging House.

"What was dat?" A familiar, cruel, voice broke through the cold air. Morris Delancey sauntered up behind the sick boy, his foot colliding with the newsies' ribs.

Another coughing fit broke out in Race's body as he laid on his back, his head hitting the ground with each cough. "Please," He began, only to stop when the Delancey's foot collided with his ribcage once again.

"You're lucky I can't stay around for long, kid. Real lucky." Morris grumbled, getting a few stronger kicks in before continuing his way.

"Why." Race stated, blood sputtering from his lips. He tried to sit up, but his ribs screamed in protest. "Someone!" He called, his voice cracking in pain. It was a weak attempt, but it was worth a shot.

Minutes passed before a newsie managed to pass by. It was Crutchie, who was on his way home to the Lodging House. "Race! What'd ya do? You's looks like crap."

"Yeah, 'tanks." Race sighed, tears involuntarily running down his face as he coughed. His sides felt like they were splitting open, the additional pain from his illness plaguing his stomach.

"Imma getcha Jack, wait 'ere." Crutchie frantically spoke, hobbling away as fast as he could in the direction of the street Jack usually sells on. It felt like hours passed when it was only minutes, but eventually Race was in Jack's arms.

His brain swam in and out of consciousness as he was carried home, pain consuming his body. He thought he was coughing, but he couldn't be sure. The last memory Race had was the Lodging House doors.

When Race woke up again, the room was lit by candles. Bandages were wrapped tightly around his chest, two blankets covering his body. A lukewarm cloth was on his forehead, his vision blurry as he tried to wake up.

"I told ya yous shoulda stayed in 'ed." Specs's voice broke the silence in his head. Race sighed, closing his eyes again, beginning to drift off.

"Yeah, yeah." He sighed, returning to sleep with a small smile on his face. Specs chuckled, happy his friend was okay, despite the cracked ribs.


	3. Stabbed - RACE (pt 1)

**Please review! I love hearing from you guys. If you have any OC requests, just comment a description of what you want and you OC's name and anything I should know. I don't bite! Hope you all one's a little all over the place, but hopefully it makes enough sense. Enjoy :).**

Spot Conlon walked through the streets of Manhattan, feeling as if he was out of his way. Manhattan didn't intimidate him, nor did the Manhattan newsies, but something didn't feel right. There was a chill in the air, his hairs standing up on the back of his neck in anticipation. The streets were bare for the time of day, the sun was only beginning to set, the crimson colors lighting the sigh.

"Oh ho! You think you can fight back, kid?" A voice broke, the sounds of a fight echoing the streets. Spot heard a boy yell in pain, the sound of a body colliding with a wall filling the air. Looking around, Spot tried to find the source, listening intently to the yelling.

"Please, please!" Someone begged, Spot turning to run to the location of the brawl. He stopped at the edge of a back ally, peering in to see what was happening. It was best to try and strategize his move to help, rather than just run in.

He recognized the boy being beat up, it was Race Higgins, one of the Manhattan newsies. "No, please, I," Race began, being cut off by a sharp fist to the stomach. Morris Delancey stepped back, blood coating his hands.

Race's face twisted with pain, sharp gasps escaping his lips. Mutters of words came out of his mouth, his hands pressed to his side. Spot froze where he was, shock settling in to his body. He didn't expect there to be so much blood, he didn't expect Race to be stabbed.

Stabbed.

"I," Race muttered out, collapsing to the ground. A scream in pain erupted from deep in his throat to move out of his lips, agony consuming his body. Spot tried to move, but found his feet didn't want to work.

After a few more agonizing screams, Spot snapped out of his trance. The Delancey brothers had ran the other way, not wanting to be connected to a possible murder. "Race!" Spot yelled, finally running over to the fallen boy. Blood sputtered out of Race's lips, his hands still pressed to his side. "I knew I shouldn'ta come to Manhattan."

Race screamed as Spot put pressure on the wound, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The Manhattan newsie lost consciousness, his body relaxing. Panicking, Spot kneeled on the bleeding stab wound, using his slippery fingers to unhook his own suspenders. Working as fast as he could, he tied the straps around the wound, wishing and hoping Race didn't wake back up.

"Thank god." Spot muttered, assessing his handiwork. The stab wound in Race's side was still gushing blood, but the flow had slowed down. Taking a few moments to think, Spot breathed. He took a long breath, in and out, feeling the air fill his lungs.

Shaking himself out of it, he picked up Race. There was no way pulling him over his shoulder would work, blood would only pour out of the stab wound faster. So, he picked him up bridal style, holding him close to his body to maintain some extra pressure on the injury. Race was still unconscious, a sheet of sweat covering his body. His curly hair clung to his forehead, the short curls bouncing with each step Spot took.

Spot's eyes glanced around the streets, searching for any sign of a fellow newsie. Going to the cops or the hospital would be useless, although, Race may need a doctor. Finally, Spot spotted a Manhattan newsie, limping his way home, wherever that was.

"Hey! Crutch guy!" Spot yelled, adjusting Race in his arms. The guy had sandy blond hair, he was even shorter than Spot was. The other guy, Crutchie, Spot now remember, limped over fast as he could, his eyes widening.

"What'd ya do ta him?" Crutchie gasped, taking note of all the blood. Race's entire shirt was soaked, one of his arms hanging off the side of his body. Blood covered Spot's hands, his red shirt even darker than usual.

"I did nothin to 'im." Spot defended, tightening his grip on the injured boy in his arms. "He's one 'a you's, right?"

"Yeah, 'is names Race. Follow me." Crutchie nodded, getting the hint that Race needed to go home. Spot sighed with relief, following the somehow smaller boy home to a large building. "Dis is da Lodging House. Set 'im on the couch."

Crutchie opened the front door, several boys appearing. They all yelled and cheered, but silence fell over them when they saw Spot. "Hey, hey! What's the long faces!" Jack cheered, stopping as well once he saw Spot.

"Conlon! You son of a-!" Jack started to scream, pushing his way through his friends. Crutchie held a hand up to stop him, the oldest boy only pausing for him.

"I don't think he did it." Crutchie whispered, glancing back at Spot in the doorway. He was awkwardly holding Race, no one seeming to acknowledge that their friend was severely injured, possibly dying.

"I should get goin, but I think ya guys want dis." Spot butted in, adjusting Race again in his arms. Blood spurted from the stab wound as the suspenders slipped, the other boys jumping into action. Albert took Race from Spot's arms, everyone's shock and confusion fading.

Once Race was inside and on the couch, Spot turned around to leave, but was stopped by Crutchie's hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, for bringin 'im home. We'se'll take care of him."

Spot nodded, turning back around to face the shorter boy. He spit in his hand, extending it. Crutchie returned the favor, his hair bobbing as he nodded. "You'se better."

Spot walked down the streets of New York, making his way back to Brooklyn. His mind was plagued with images of the bloody body of Race, his screams embedded into his brain. Spot's pants slipped as he walked, the missing suspenders really showing.

Race would be okay, hopefully.


	4. Stabbed - RACE (pt 2)

**I don't know where Spot actually lives so he now has an apartment he shares with other Brooklyn newsies. Together they can all pay rent.**

 **I wanna thank SomedayonBroadway for this request/idea, I hope I delivered to your liking. I'm still taking requests!**

Spot Conlon walked into his Brooklyn apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. A couple of his fellow Brooklyn newsies looked up, their eyes drooping with sleep. It was after dark; the room being lit by a single candle. After the whole ordeal with Race and the Manhattan newsies, Spot had walked around for a while, his shirt still stained with blood.

"Don't come 'ome so late." One of the boys complained, shoving his face back into a pillow.

Spot sighed, walking back into his room. Another boy slept in there on the top of a bunk bed, Spot getting the bottom. Removing his shirt, he winced at how stiff it was, Race's blood caked to the cloth. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the bathroom, bringing a candle with him, and turning on the faucet.

Spot filled a bucket of full of warm, clean water. He grabbed an old rag from under the sink, dipping his hands into the liquid. A sigh escaped his lips as he cleaned his chest and abdomen off, each stroke sending red streaks of blood down his body.

It took him longer than it should have to get completely clean. At least, completely clean by candle light. Who knows what it would be like in the sunlight. Spot dumped the dirty water down the drain, wincing as he saw the discoloration in the once clear liquid.

Returning to his bottom bunk, his chest bare, Spot curled into the blankets. He buried his face into his stiff pillow, the thin blanket shielding his bare skin from the chill of the room. All candles blown out, Spot was left in darkness.

Race was bleeding out on the ally ground, Spot desperately trying to control the bleeding. Screams and wails in pain escaped the boy's lips, his bloody hands clawing at Spot's face. He fought to keep the injured boy still, but somehow seemed to be losing.

"You'se did this! You'se did this!" Race shouted in accusation, moaning in pain as Spot pressed harder on the stab wound. The blood refused to stop flowing, if anything it pooled in his hands even faster.

"Race," Spot began, his voice cut off as Race clawed at the Brooklyn boy's throat. Anger and pain contorted his face, Spot's face presenting panic.

"This is you'se fault! You'se fault!" Race screamed, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. This time, his eyes didn't close, they just remained open. His eyes had rolled back into their normal position, his pupils staring into nothing.

Race's chest no longer rose and fell every few seconds, the air refused to enter his brain. His blue eyes stared at the sky, the sun continuing to set in the distance as if nothing was happening. Spot could no longer feel the other boy's heartbeat on his hands, the blood almost immediately stopping its flow.

His skin was pale as snow, his lips blue as his eyes. His body was going cold, there wasn't anything left moving through it to keep it warm.

Race was dead. Race Higgins was dead.

"It's my fault." Spot sobbed, releasing his hands from the Manhattan newsie's side. He hung his head in sadness, wishing and praying against all hope there was something more he could do. "It's my fault!"

"It's my fault!" Spot yelled, sitting up so fast in bed his head hit the top bunk. His breathing was labored, his whole body was drenched with sweat.

"Pipe down would ya?" Jaxon, his roommate, pounded his fist on the bed above, the wood creaking as he rolled over.

"Yeah." Spot replied, sitting up on his bed. He reached under the bunk, pulling out an old, worn out trunk. Grabbing another red shirt almost identical to the bloody one, Spot pulled it on over his head, tucking it into his loose pants. He made a mental note to save up for a new pair of suspenders, preferably before his pants fell to his ankles.

A sliver of sun shown in the horizon, the building lighting to a bright orange color. The other newsies would wake up soon, so if he wanted to go to Manhattan, he needed to move fast.

It didn't take him as long as he thought to reach Manhattan. Using what clouded memories, he had, driven by guilt, Spot made his way to the Lodging House. It was real early, the bell wouldn't ring for another hour, so there was time to see if his dream was true, if Race was truly dead.

Hand trembling slightly, a trait the nicknamed 'King of Brooklyn' was not used to, Spot knocked on the door. He listened intently for signs of life inside and was greeted by the pounding of footsteps. Jack Kelly swung the door open, the scowl on his face softening just slightly as he saw the state the smaller newsie was in.

"Whaddya want?" Jack asked, breaking the barrier of silence between them. Spot looked into the fellow newsie leader's eyes, his face toughening.

"I wanna see Race." Spot stated, tightening his biceps to bring back some form of toughness to his body. It was clear that he was upset and distressed, but Jack Kelly didn't need to see any weak side of him. No one did.

"Why." Jack stated more than he asked, leaning against the door frame of the lodging house.

"I sorta saved his life yesterday. I wanna see how he's doin'." Spot replied, motioning to the interior of the building. Jack looked him up and down before sighing, moving out of the way. Walking inside, Spot felt a firm hand rest on his shoulder, Jack leaning down to talk to him.

"I'll be watching you'se. If you 'urt 'im so help me God, I will kill you." He threatened, a chill sending its way down Spot's back. He puffed out his chest, running a hand through his hair.

"If I wanted to 'urt 'em, I woulda finished the job yesterday."

The two walked in silence as Jack led him up the stairs. There was a hallway of closed doors, only one open. Beds lined the walls, boys of ages 12-16 all asleep in the bunks. Crutchie was in a chair by one bed, his head resting in his hands, his eyes closed. Race lay on that bed, his chest bare but his abdomen heavily bandaged.

A red spot where the stab wound is stood out against the white of the cloth bandages. Blood was no doubt oozing, but at least it wasn't spurting or gushing like it had been before. Race's body was white as a sheet, a thin layer of sweat covering him.

"Is he?.." Spot whispered, kneeling beside the bed. He wanted to reach out and feel the other boy's forehead, just to know if he had heat left in him.

"Dead? Nah." A voice croaked, startling both Spot and Jack. Race smacked his lips together, slowly rolling his head to the side to face the other two. "Pain? Yeah."

"Hey hey, don't talk, don't talk." Jack insisted, dipping his hand into a bucket of water and pulling out a rag. He rung the cloth out before putting it on Race's forehead, Race's face relaxing as the, no doubt, cool water soothed his potential, and very plausible, fever.

"Look kid, I'se sorry. I shoulda helped." Spot began, eying Jack to see if he could place a comforting hand on Race's shoulder. Jack nodded, but kept his eyes glued on the Brooklyn boy. "It's my fault ya got stabbed."

Race lightly shook his head, a crack of a smile forming on his lips. "Thanks. I'se okay…"

That was all the injured boy could muster before pain lulled him back to sleep, the smile fading from his mouth. Spot sighed, watching Jack's expressions. The oldest newsie looked concerned, angry, and sad all at once. There wasn't a real way to describe it.

"Has he's seen a doctor?" Spot whispered, his eyes pleading with Jack for the right answer. Jack shook his head, Spot's heart dropping.

"Specs is gonna go lookin' today. Soon as da bell rings. We'se need one dat don't cost that much." Jack answered, dipping the rag back in the water and repeating the process. "From what we know's though, if he was gonna die from dis, he woulda already. Or he wouldn't a woken up da few times he did."

Spot nodded his head, watching the curls on Race's head rise and fall each time Jack put the cloth back on his forehead. He watched the newsboy's chest rise and fall each time air filled his lungs. "Let me know about da costs. I wanna pay some."

"We don't needs ya to-"

"I need's to. For myself. I dreamt he d-died out 'dere on da streets. I wanna make sure dat don't happen." Spot insisted, pleading with the older boy. Jack's eyes widened with shock, he just couldn't believe the 'King of Brooklyn' was being so sensitive.

"If ya insist, I can't keep ya from it." Jack sighed, getting up to show Spot out. "But, Spot, he's alright. He should be."

With Jack's words in his head, Spot left the Lodging House, starting his trek back to Brooklyn. He was going to have to sell a lot of papers if he was going to help pay for a doctor. No use in being late for the bell. But, in the end of the day, Race was going to be fine.


	5. Giving Up - CRUTCHIE & JACK

**This one's a bit short because there's not too much I can do with it, but I hope you all like it!**

 **Not slash!**

Jack Kelly regretfully climbed the fire escape of the refuge, swallowing his own fear. His mind persisted upon him the painful memories of what happened in that building, the pain that was inflicted upon him and many others. Hands clasping the rusty, metal ladder, he kept pulling himself up, looking in each of the windows for a familiar face.

He made it to the third floor before he saw him, his young friend, his brother, Crutchie. The slightly chilled air was sucked out of his lungs at the sight of his friend, his body instinctually taking a step back. Nothing could've prepared him for what he saw, not even his time in the refuge added up to the pain he felt at the sight of Crutchie.

Crutchie lay on the top bunk of a bed, another boy beside him. His arm had a deep, bleeding gash on it, cut right through the shirt. His face was swollen and puffy, almost unrecognizable in the dim moonlight. One leg, his bad leg, hung off the side of the bed, the twisted limb looking even worse than usual.

"Crutch." Jack whispered, working the window open. From his experience at the refuge, he knew the windows were always open. Snyder and his guys usually beat the boys so bad they couldn't bend enough to climb out, unless, of course, they were willing to possibly die from their injuries.

Crutchie didn't wake up the first few times Jack quietly called his name, but eventually he stirred at the familiarity of his voice. Opening one of his eyes, he looked around the room, nearly jumping out of his skin when he saw a figure in the window.

"Jack?" He whispered, turning his sore and broken body to face the window. The deep abrasion on his left arm stung like needles were being stabbed into every inch on it. The boy in bed beside him stirred, but if he woke up, he didn't say anything.

"Yeah, yeah it's me." Jack whispered, hoping Crutchie would have enough strength to get off the bed and come to the window. The sight of his brother laid up in bed, barely able to roll on his side, ripped his heart from his chest.

Crutchie tried to sit up, pulling himself up to sit on his elbows. The deep cut caused his arm to give out, his back hitting onto the bed again, shaking it a little. Crutchie didn't weigh much to begin with, so Jack was startled the bunk moved at all when he fell back.

"I'se can't." Crutchie whispered, telling Jack he couldn't move to the window. Jack felt like he was going to vomit, his stomach churned painfully in his body. He covered his mouth with his hand, doing his best not to cry.

"I'se sorry, Crutch." Jack sighed, running his hands through his dark hair. His voice trembled as he resisted sobs, guilty thoughts piercing his brain.

"Don't." Crutchie laughed slightly, putting a smile on his face. "I'se'll be fine, jus' give me some time."

"You's can barely move." Jack whispered nervously, wanting to climb into the room and be beside his best friend. But, he couldn't risk it. There was no way Jack wanted to be in the refuge again, the sound of his footsteps would alert a guard and he would be caught.

"Hey, I'se can move." Crutchie defended himself quietly, trying to sit up on is elbows again. He avoided the arm with the open wound, opting to rest on the bruised arm. Lasting a few seconds, he smiled at Jack, his face changing as he fell onto his back again.

The boy Crutchie was sharing the bunk lightly pushed him, weakly telling him to cut it out. Memories resurfaced in Jack's mind, memories of being beaten and squished together with other boys. He remembered Snyder beating him so bad he could barely move, just like Crutchie. Crutchie's bad leg made things worse, he couldn't fight back no matter how hard he tried.

"I'se'll be back, I'se promise." Jack whispered, taking one last look at his broken friend. Crutchie's eyes met Jack's briefly, one of them nearly swollen shut now. His eyes showed hope, despite what he felt inside and out.

Shaking, Jack slowly climbed down the fire escape, doing his best not to make sound. He couldn't believe what he had seen, he didn't _want_ to believe what he'd seen. Almost the instance his feet touched solid ground, tears slipped down his cheeks.

Jack didn't want to go to the Lodging House and face the disappointed, angry boys. He didn't want to walk around and risk someone seeing him, but he especially didn't want to go looking for Kathrine or Davey. The chilly night air bit at his face and ears, the tears drawing the cold to his face.

He knew he couldn't get Crutchie out of the Refuge; he may as well give up on that now. So, that's exactly what he did. Jack gave up right then and there, deciding he probably wouldn't ever see his younger brother, his best friend, again.

There was nothing he could do.


	6. Not Just a Cold - ELMER

**I did my best to research early symptoms of asthma and asthma attacks and normal symptoms. I apologize if I got anything wrong, just let me know. But, it is different for everyone.**

 **I suck at endings.. so sorry in advance!**

 **Enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

It happened over months. It started with a cough in the autumn months, which escalated into cold like symptoms throughout winter. As time went by, it became increasingly more difficult for Elmer to breathe. He would have good days, sometimes even a good week, but it would all come crashing down.

He would cough more than normal, wheezing if he ran too fast or went up all the stairs. Elmer's chest would tighten like an elephant was sitting on him. No matter what he tried to do, his breathing just wasn't good.

Jack had started to notice, all the boys had. The coughing and wheezing wasn't necessarily a discrete sound. They didn't understand how one day, Elmer was completely fine. No wheezing or coughing or clutching his hand over his tightened chest. But, the next day, he went down on flight of stairs and was winded.

No one knew how bad it was until one stuffy spring morning. Elmer woke up okay, the sound of Jack yelling down from the roof stirring him from his sleep. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. His body was sweaty from the air's humidity, his brown shirt and vest tossed to the floor.

"Ya heard Jack, da Sun's up, da bell rings soon, get a move on." Romeo said, hitting Elmer on the chest with his suspenders. "Get up."

"I'se comin.'" Elmer groaned, the tight feeling in his chest returning just a bit. His throat ached from coughing while he slept.

"You's betta. Lots o' sirens last night, should be a good headline!" Romeo exclaimed, his voice hopeful for a good day of selling. Elmer picked his shirt and vest from the floor, pulling his shirt on and buttoning the buttons.

He coughed, trying to clear the stuffed feeling in his sore throat. Shrugging it off as nothing, especially since this had become normal. This morning felt different for some reason. Elmer was irritable, the smallest thing setting him off in his brain.

"Yeah," He mustered a reply, standing up. Almost as soon as Elmer stood, he was back on his bed. Romeo had left the room; the only boy left was Mush. Mush raised an eyebrow in concern, one foot out the door, just in case he had to run for Jack.

"You's okay?" He asked Elmer, leaning against the bed post of the bunk bed. Elmer coughed, keeping his hand pressed to his chest. He opened his mouth to yell angrily at Mush, but all that came out was more coughs.

"Jack! Specs! Someone!" Mush yelled, moving closer to Elmer. He sat beside his friend, patting his back awkwardly. In his eyes, Elmer looked like he was choking on air.

"Whatcha yellin' 'bout?" Jack sighed, going into the room. Elmer's breathing sounded like he had a whistle stuck in his throat each time he breathed out, his chest so tight and squeezed it felt like he had been hit with a bat.

Mush kept a hand on Elmer's shoulder. "He's can't breathe." He stated, looking over at Jack. The older newsboy rolled his eyes, his attention returning to Elmer.

"No Mush, I'se thought he's jus' fine." Jack remarked, watching Elmer attentively. Mush rolled his own eyes in return, confused.

Panic was beginning to set in on all three boys, Elmer feeling it the worst. His breathing was short and shallow, the whistling sound becoming more rapid as he desperately searched for air. He used one of his hands to weakly hit his chest, his face growing pale. Elmer's breath was wheezing in and out now, his skull feeling like it was going to crack.

Jack's muffled voice filled his ears, his body slumping to the floor from the bed. Next thing he knew, he was back in a sitting position, resting back on Jack's body. Elmer's vision blurred, Mush's terrified face fading.

The coughing couldn't stop, several other boys had entered the room, worried about their friend. Anxiety filled Elmer's mind, sweat dripping down his pale face, his lips turning a dark blue tint. No one knew what to do, but Finch had run off to find a doctor. At this point, they'd even take Davey.

Slowly but surely, the whistling and wheezing sounds stopped. Elmer could take normal breaths, even though he tried to take big breaths. The color returned to his face, the tight feeling loosening in his chest. His sides and head ached, occasionally stabbing pains plaguing his body.

Frantically, Finch barreled of the stairs, Davey hot on his heels. He led the smarter boy to the room, relieved to see Elmer was no long breathing as badly. His body was still resting against Jack's, the blue fading from his lips.

"Describe what happened, Finch here wasn't any good at it." Davey asked, kneeling by Elmer and Jack. He smoothed out his shirt and pants before looking closer at Elmer. Suddenly, all the boys that had witnessed Elmer's breathing started talking at once, filling the small room with around twenty loud voices.

"Quiet!" Jack shouted, silencing all of them. Sighing, he turned his head to face Davey. "His breathin' got real bad. Whistlin,' coughin,' wheezing,' his face went pale, his lips went blue, he held a hand on his chest." Jack listed, looking at the smaller, younger boy resting in his arms.

Davey paused, taking a little to think. Jack motioned for all the boys to leave now that Elmer was doing better, staying quiet so Davey could think. Elmer was nodding off, despite the fact he had woken less than an hour ago. The only boys left in the room were Jack, Davey, Mush, Crutchie, and of course, Elmer.

"That sounds a bit like a, uh, asthma attack." Davey thought, scratching the back of his head. He couldn't be sure, but the symptoms all added up. Les had a small form of it, only coming on when he ran. After Les was diagnosed, his parents sat him down and explained the symptoms, so he could catch it if his little brother didn't.

"What's dat?" Crutchie asked, unfamiliar with asthma. The confused look on Jack and Mush's faces confirmed that neither of them knew either.

"It's when his lungs cause his airways, or his throat, to close up. It requires medication." Davey told them, his voice dropping at the last part. He knew there was almost no way the boys could afford asthma medication of any kind, even something simple.

"We's can pay for any medication." Jack confirmed, reading Davey's fallen expression. Mush sat back against the bunk, running a nervous hand through his hair. Elmer had dozed off on Jack, his breath wheezing just a little.

"Can you heat water?" Davey asked, trying to think of anything to help. He wasn't a doctor, so he didn't know if it would help, but it was worth a shot if this happened again.

"We's can," Crutchie began, "sometimes. We's need ta make a fire first."

"The steam could help his breathin.' Specially since you guys can't afford medication. My folks barely can afford Les' and he doesn't even need it often." Davey sighed, knowing it wasn't the best, but it would have to work if there was another attack like this.

Jack looked at the sleeping boy in his arms, even more concerned. "You's said 'is throat closes... could he die?"

Jack, Mush, and Crutchie all looked at Davey with hopeful, but sad eyes. Davey knew he couldn't give them a clear answer. With Les, he would have to do a whole lot of physical activity to come close to dying from his asthma attacks. From what Finch described earlier, it sounded like Elmer had only sat up in bed.

"I… wish I could say no… but truthfully, I don't know." Davey whispered, never wanting to say anything like that again. The newsie boys had become his other brothers, losing one would destroy everyone. Jack's grip tightened around Elmer's sleeping frame, the protective older brother mentality kicking in.

"But, he's not gonna die." Mush said, trying to build a positive mood again. The solemn darkness that had fallen over the five of them was heavy on their hearts.

"Long as you act fast, he shouldn't." Davey assured them, helping Mush build the positivity. "It's likely he'll have another attack within the week, but it shouldn't be this bad."

The four looked at Elmer, who had slept through all this. They watched his chest rise and fall a bit too fast, his breath still wheezing slightly. Everyone made mental notes to watch him before it got this bad again.

Jack picked Elmer up, setting him on his bunk, propping pillows up so he could remain sitting. "You's boys go sell, I'se got it 'ere." Jack told him, motioning for them to leave.

Reluctantly, Crutchie and Mush left, knowing better than to argue with Jack right now. Davey stayed, knowing his presence would most likely be needed. Jack and Davey stayed the day by Elmer, making sure he didn't have another attack. This first one was something new none of the boys had seen before, but now they know.

If someone had months of a cough, it's probably not just a cold.


	7. Strong - DAVEY X OC (pt 1)

**This is short, sorry about that! Part 1 for now, hopefully part 2 coming soon. Enjoy!**

Sheets looked around her at the group of boys, all of them rough housing with each other. They stood outside the gate, shoving each other and laughing happily. Sheets watched, sad they didn't accept her fully as one of their own.

All they did was flirt with her, her black hair and green eyes mesmerizing them. When they weren't flirting her, they were treating her as nothing more than a proper girl, which she wasn't. Sheets sold papers for god's sake.

One morning, Sheets stared through the gate, leaning against the cold metal rods. The boys were around her, all waiting impatiently for the headline to be put up. She took a deep breath and sighed, longing for them to accept her instead of ignoring her, only noticing her for her gender.

"You're lookin' down." A particularly different boy spoke, leaning against the gate beside Sheets. She looked over, Davey Jacobs smiling at her.

"It's nothin.'" Sheets replied to him, looking away from him. She would never admit it, but she did like Davey. The way his dark hair lightly curled naturally, his brown eyes gazing softly at anyone he saw.

Sheets looked through the gate at the Delancey brothers, feeling as though the only thing, she could do to prove herself to the boys, was beat them up. Davey noticed the shift, her ignorance to his smile at her. He raised a concerned eyebrow at her, reaching his hand out.

"Hey, Sheets, you sure you're okay?" Davey asked, looking around at the other boys to see if they were noticing her withdrawn behavior. They couldn't have been more oblivious, all talking to each other, glancing up occasionally to check if the headline was up.

Sheets didn't even look at Davey that time, she was too lost in her thoughts. The boys obviously didn't notice her, they didn't think of her as one of them. She needed to prove herself.

Later that day, Sheets followed the Delancey brothers down an alley. Her bag of papers weighed heavily at her side, her boots lightly tapping on the pavement. Black hair tucked behind her ears, her eyes watching the two boys push each other around. She looked down at her knuckled, stretching the fingers before clenching her fists.

Sheets took a step forward, her arm raised, ready to strike from behind. Just as she as going to swing, a hand wrapped around her bicep, pulling her backward and out of the alleyway. "Are you out of your mind?" The person whispered, not wanting to alert the Delancey's.

"What are you," Sheets paused, taking in the face inches from hers. It was Davey Jacobs, his usually soft eyes filled with fear.

"What was that about?" He whispered fiercely, demanding answers. She took a deep breath, looking around. It was silly, stupid really, that Sheets felt like she needed to beat up two boys to prove herself to the newsies. But, there was no way she could admit that.

Sheets remained silent, avoiding Davey's brown eyes. He audibly sighed, a hand running through his dark colored hair. "Y'know, why don't you come to dinner tonight, with my folks. My mom's a good cook, my parents would love to have you around. Please?" Davey rambled, almost begging towards the end.

Sheets finally looked up at him, his face blushing red. "It's not a date?" She asked for reassurance, not wanting to be nothing more than someone Davey could use as pretty arm candy.

"Not a date, unless you… uh… want it to be…" Davey muttered, scratching the back of his head. Sheets took a deep breath, thinking.

"I just… can I tell you tonight?" She asked him, wanting to sell her papers. A pang of guilt was in her heart as she noticed all the papers he had left, all the money he had probably wasted unless he went back to selling.

"I'll meet you after selling." Davey told her, motioning for her to finish the day. He watched as she sulked off, the sound of her footsteps getting fainter. He sighed heavily, worried about her.


	8. Brothers - DAVEY & LES

When Davey Jacobs was nine years old, his parents sat him down on their old couch and told him he was going to be a big brother. He was confused at first, but also excited. He had friends that had little siblings and they were always so happy.

But, Davey couldn't help but feel bad. Was he not enough for his parents? Why did they need someone else? Were they not proud of him? Was he doing bad in school, so they wanted another one to have a good child? Did he misbehave?

His parents sensed his doubts and anxieties, giving Davey a long hug. He sat beside them on the couch for hours while they explained everything to him. So many questions ran through his young mind, he really couldn't comprehend the fact he was going to be a big brother.

Excitement and nerves ran through his mind as months passed. His mother got bigger every week, her abdomen growing as the baby did. Davey watched with wonder, but also fear. Months after he was told he was going to be a big brother, he was sent to a friends house for a few hours. It was like a sleepover party, he got dinner and got to sleep in a room with his friend.

The next morning, Davey was led home. His mother lay in bed, his father beside her. Her stomach was no longer swollen under the sheets, instead, a bundle of blankets lay in her arms.

Davey climbed onto the bed, snuggling into his father's arms. Resting his head on his mother's shoulder, his father's arm keeping him from moving too close, Davey gazed at the bundle in her arms.

A baby boy's face could be seen poking out from the blankets, his nose no bigger than a vest button. His eyes were squeezed shut as he slept, his lips parted just gently as he breathed. Not a single wrinkle could be seen on his light, smooth skin.

"What's his name?" Davey asked, curious if his parents had figured one out yet. His brown eyes stared with wonder at the infant, he brought his hand to gently touch the baby's face.

"We decided on Les." His mother whispered, exhausted from giving birth not too long ago. Davey smiled, his nose crinkling as he looked at his younger brother.

"He smells funny." Davey giggled, turning to bury his face into his father's shoulder. Both his parents quietly laughed, careful not to wake the newborn baby.

"Well, we can do something about that soon." His father told him, rubbing his back. Davey turned again, facing baby Les.

"Can I go play outside?" Davey asked, already a bit bored with the new baby. There was nothing exciting going on and he had too much energy to just lay and wait. He crawled off the bed the same way he crawled on, bouncing on his feet when they touched the ground.

"Only if your friends are out." His mother told him, yawning. Davey nodded, walking over to the side of the bed by his mother and Les.

He stood up on the tip of his toes, gently moving the blanket away from his brother's forehead. Davey placed a gentle kiss on the baby's soft forehead, smiling again. "I love you, Les. I promise I'll be a good brother." Davey whispered before running away, leaving the house to go brag to his friends.

Maybe a baby brother wasn't so bad after all.

Ten months passed, Les had been growing up on front of Davey's eyes. The older brother couldn't help but learn with his younger sibling. For example, Davey didn't know that babies cried every time something small happened to them.

Their diaper was full? Crying. They rolled over too fast? Crying. They fell after standing for too long? Crying. Older brother raised their voice? Crying. Someone poked their face? Crying. Grandma held them? Crying. They breathed funny? Crying.

The air was full with the sound of Les' crying. The baby boy seemed to never stop his high pitched screeching, everything upset him. It annoyed the crap out of Davey, but sometimes, he was the only one that could calm him down.

Some nights when Les was crying, Davey would wander into his brother's room and stand by his crib. He would stand on the very tip of his toes, steadying himself on the edge of the wooden crib. Reaching his hand into the crib, he let Les hold onto his fingers with his tiny ones, smiling a small bit in the dark.

Sometimes, all it took was Davey's comforting touch to calm his baby brother down. Other times, though, it just made him more upset. One of their parents would have to come in and take over; it was obvious then that Les needed something other than comfort.

One morning, Davey was watching Les while their mother made breakfast. Their father had already left to work, leaving his wife and sons at home. Davey's school bag was packed and ready to go by the front door, so he had all the time in the world to procrastinate.

Les was standing up, leaning against the couch in the living room. His small fist was clasped around the fabric, holding himself up. Gurgles and baby noises escaped his lips as he bounced on his chubby legs, smiling at his big brother nearby.

"Come here, Les." Davey cooed, sitting a couple feet away, his arms outstretched. Les had been hinting at walking lately, but had never actually done it. The ten month old giggled, throwing a toy at his big brother.

Davey laughed, watching his baby brother. He pretended the toy hurt when it hit his forehead, acting over animated. Les giggled loudly, pushing himself off the couch and stumbling to his brother. He did it, he actually walked.

Davey jumped up excitedly, picking up his baby brother and twirling him around. "Ma! Ya won't believe it!" Davey yelled, running to the kitchen with Les in his arms. Les whined at Davey's yelling, covering his ears and burying his face into his chest.

"What?" She questioned, turning away from cooking breakfast. A million ideas ran through her mind of what could have happened, good and bad ideas.

"Les was walking!" Davey yelled excitedly, Les screaming in protest at the volume of his elder brother's voice. Davey grinned, setting his brother down so he could show their mother.

Les looked up at Davey, clinging to his pant leg. He let go of his brother's pants, only to promptly fall onto his butt. A cry escaped his small lips, tears springing in his light brown eyes. Their mother sighed, picking up her youngest son, balancing him on her hip.

"Just be ready for school, David." She sighed again, going back to cooking. Les held his thumb in his mouth, calming down from his 'very dramatic' fall. Davey sighed a bit, feeling guilty as he walked over and got his school bag from by the door. No one would believe him until they saw Les walk with their own eyes.

Five years later, almost fifteen year old Davey held hands with his now almost six year old brother. Les had a light backpack over his shoulders, a wide smile on his face. Two notebooks and pencils were all he had, his clothes new and pressed. It was his first day of school.

"Are the teachers nice? Do we have recess? How long is lunch? Is math hard? Is reading hard? Are the kids nice?" Les pestered with questions, squeezing his big brother's hand. Davey laughed, not letting go of his hand.

"You'll find out Les, you'll be with lots of kids. Just be careful not to anger the older ones, they could be mean." Davey informed him, hoping to pass on some older brother wisdom. Les smiled, nodding his head.

"Thank ya, Davey." Les laughed, grinning even more when they reached the school ground. Davey would be going to the building on the right, Les would be going to the left.

Davey bent down to his brother's height, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'll meet you here right after school and we'll walk home."

"Bye Davey." Les almost shouted, pulling his elder brother into a tight hug. He couldn't help but smile, kissing his forehead.

"See you later." Davey whispered, watching his baby brother go to the left building. No matter what, Les will always be the baby brother.


	9. WWI AU - KATHRINE AND JACK

**I apologize the formatting was weird last time and may be weird this time. I do not know why it is doing this.**

Dirt filled his mouth, the disgusting Earth forcefully pushed past his lips. Jack Kelly's face was driven into the ditch, a filthy leather boot pressed to the back of his head. He sputtered, trying to spit the bad taste from his mouth. His body seized uncomfortably in the mud, rain pouring from the unforgiving sky. Bombs went off in the distance, gun shots ringing in his ears.

He felt a small circle press onto his back, just to the left of his upper spine. The barrel of the gun was forceful, digging between his shoulder blades. A small gasp of pain escaped Jack's lips, fear spread through his body like wildfire. A gruff voice began to speak, but it fell on deaf ears. All the shooting had made him lose some of his hearing, the petrifying fear he had at that exact moment hindering the specific sense.

Thoughts of his family swarming back. Kathrine flashed in his eyes, his youngest two kids balanced on either hip. His oldest son stood beside them, calling for his father to come over and hug him. The second youngest cried out, the youngest holding the top of Katherine's dress in her hand, crying.

A sob escaped Jack's dry lips, he finally managed to hear what the other man was talking about. His mind was ripped from the thoughts of his family. It was only a small piece he heard, but it was enough for his heart to sink in his chest.

"No survivors."

The last words the famous and mighty Jack Kelly ever heard.

Back in New York, a letter was delivered to the doorstep of Katherine Kelly, former Pulitzer. The red army seal was neatly pressed, keeping the paper contents inside. Dust covered the once white paper, it looked as though it had been there for weeks, even though it was just delivered. The envelope that was tucked under the doormat would contain a letter whose words she would never forget.

Curiously, she picked it up from under the filthy doormat, shaking the dust off before opening the door to her home. Katherine was greeted by her eldest son, James. He was merely five, having been left with the teenage neighbor all day who needed to work for money. Even though Katherine spent a lot of time home, helping someone who needed money was always a good deed. Jack always felt that way, especially with how he lived for so long.

The letter felt like it weighed a million pounds, even though it probably didn't even weigh 10 ounces. James stayed beside Katherine, talking her ear off as he showed her all the crafts he made that day out of old newspapers his babysitter brought over. She smiled, telling him she was proud of him, eager to open the letter.

The babysitter came down the stairs to say goodbye, telling Katherine that her youngest two were asleep in their beds. George, who was three, and Mary who was only one. Katherine smiled goodbye, handing the girl her money for the day.

James wandered off to continue his arts and crafts, his dark, tousled hair bouncing slightly on his small head. He looked a mini Jack Kelly, he had the same eyes, hair, and mannerisms as his father. Kathrine set the letter down on the table, pushing her other things out of the way.

Life had been harder since Jack left for the war. The papers reported it wasn't so bad over there, that it would be a luxury to join the military, but Katherine's gut told her otherwise. Ever since he left, she couldn't shake the feeling she would never see him walk the thin plank of wood down to the dock. She had nightmares of him dying, his frozen eyes staring up at her, his lips and skin tinted blue, his body deathly pale.

Katherine sat down at the table, pulling a chair out for herself. Upstairs George and Mary were was silent, she could hear the muffled sounds of James playing in the other room. The letter now sat in her hands, the seal on the envelope staring back at her, almost taunting her.

Hands shaking, Katherine used a letter opener and cut the seal. This was different than the government check she received from the army for her husband's services. The letter inside was folded neatly, the crisp smell of new paper wafted in the air.

She unfolded the crinkling paper, scanning the words on the page. She didn't even make it to the third line before she dropped it, her whole body beginning to shake.

"Regret to inform you… Jack… dead in the field… can't bring the body back…"

That was all Katherine could read before her entire world came crumbling down around her. Jack had been the number one thing ever since they met, excluding the kids, who came later. Jack Kelly was her soulmate, the man that would never leave her despite her quirks. And now he was dead, never coming home.

Katherine didn't even feel the tears running down her face, she didn't hear James' desperate pleas to know what was wrong with his mother. She spent hours in this state, only responding when Davey Jacobs and Crutchie were in her house. James had let them in.

Crutchie hobbled up the stairs to the two younger ones upstairs, hearing their cries since Katherine couldn't at the time. Davey walked over to the woman he considered a very close friend, pulling a chair up and sitting in front of her. He instructed James to go help Crutchie with George and Mary, he knew Crutchie couldn't handle two crying kids at once.

Katherine barely moved, tears had long stopped running down her face. She was in shock and denial, unable to accept that her husband, her other half, was gone. Curious, Davey read the letter on the table, the curvy, fancy writing making him intrigued.

Davey read the entire letter, his heart sinking to his stomach. He felt like he might be sick, he felt a sense of agony building up inside. Rereading the letter didn't help, he still couldn't believe it. No one would be able to believe it, but it was very real.

Davey pulled Katherine into a tight hug, audible sobs breaking out in both of them. Neither of them wanted to believe what had happened, it was too much to handle.

They had lost Jack Kelly and he would never be coming home.


End file.
